I need to stop torturing myself and move the fuck on. She was just sitting there and I wasn't going to be able to use her. If I ever get better enough to row again fuck knows if she'd still be the right boat. If. When I'm walking with a stick because I can't keep my fucking balance how the fuck do I think I'm ever going to be able to row again?

Fuck this shit.

The money is going on Millie's vet bills. And a tattoo.

And maybe one day I'll fucking forget.

MILLEH

G took Millie to the vet today; she's had massively swollen neck glands for the last few weeks, though they don't seem to bother her - she's been on antibiotics for basically the last six weeks trying to get rid of her UTI (which seems to have fucked off, thank cod). So, she gets hauled into the vet, they take blood and lymph samples, and pee, and have sent them off to be analysed. And I have had to ask my grandparents for money. Woo.

I really, really hope it's not lymphoma. Which was mentioned. And I'm trying not to think about.

ooooh. midnight. Today is Millie's fifth birthday. MILLEH BIRFDAY FUD NAO MILLEH?

I am up to my ears in essays and

If I have to listen to Vampire Weekend's Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa one more time I think I might stab myself in the ear just to make it go away.

In the meantime I will continue to find a way to wrangle this quote into my essay - not because I agree with the sentiment, but because the image makes me giggle:

"And if a Westerner so much as references Africa, the rotting tweed-tattered corpse of Edward Said will punch through his grave and eat them" (from an article in The Economist's More Intelligent Life magazine).